


The Wolf of Andraste

by coveredinfeels



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bears, Fluff, M/M, Werewolf Courting, Werewolves, as in literally the Inquisitor is fluffy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-03-29 01:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3877507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinfeels/pseuds/coveredinfeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Herald of Andraste: hero, valiant warrior, (ex?)-werewolf, enemy of all bears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ongoing kinkmeme fill. Handwaving liberties taken with Origins werewolves.

The man who walked out of the fade refuses to answer any of her questions. He shakes his head and growls when she tries. His motions are wary, like a wounded animal watching a hunter.

Cassandra still must have her answers, though.

Then Leliana takes a closer look and frowns. "This... may be more complicated than we thought. Max? It was Max, wasn't it?"

The man inhales, looks up at her. "Know you."

"Yes. I'm a friend, remember? How do you feel?"

He growls again. "Hurt. Smell wrong." He glares at his own hand, where it glitters green. " _Not_ friend. Ruined. Wrong shape."

"Do you remember what happened?"

Max wrinkles his nose at her. "Smell-- old blood, bad, not to eat. Then smell wrong. Don't want, want proper shape, want teeth, tear it out--"

"Max." Leliana says, like a schoolmarm. "I know you can do better than that, even if you are hurting. Proper human words, please."

Her posture shifts, and after a moment so does his, as if he's shifting his body down, lowering his head, looking up at her almost pleadingly. It's bizarre to watch. Cassandra trusts Leliana will explain this when she's done. "I don't remember what happened. Just the smells."

"What were you doing at the conclave?"

"I work for a mercenary band. It's-- a little like a pack. Different, not right, but close. We were just guarding things. It was boring. I went--" He frowns. "I don't remember."

Leliana reaches down and strokes his head gently. "Your mother?"

"Sick. Gone. No pack left."

He looks like a sad-faced _puppy_. Cassandra has to resist the urge to cuddle him.

* * *

Leliana takes her aside to explain it. "A _werewolf_?"

"When the curse was lifted, most settled back into human lives quite naturally. A few were not so lucky. Max was the most extreme case. He was born a werewolf."

Cassandra frowns. She does not distrust Leliana's information, and yet-- "How is that even possible? Everything the Seekers ever knew about those cases said the curse was passed on like an infection. No children."

"His mother came to the Warden for help. She was pregnant, travelling with her husband when they were attacked by werewolves. Her husband died, and she was cursed. How her child survived, I don't know, but he did. When the curse was lifted, she found herself a widow whose family believed her long dead, and her son was a teenage boy who didn't like clothes. Or the indoors. Or cooked food. Or problems he couldn't solve by tearing their throats out. Or the fact he no longer had a tail. Or the Warden. Or me. Or anything, really." Leliana sighs. "Luckily, he was still young enough to be bossed around. The last I heard from his mother was years ago, but she assured me he was progressing well. Whatever happened to him at the Conclave might have caused some regression."

"You think he is innocent?"

Leliana nods. "The boy I remember was impulsive, ill-tempered, and difficult, but not unkind. He wanted to be taught to hunt as a human, to provide for his mother-- the only 'pack' he had left. I cannot see him having either the intent or, indeed, the capability to plan such an outrage." She frowns. "It is possible he was used, however. Someone aware of his nature may have been able to manipulate him. When we have more time, we should try to determine which mercenary band he belonged to and who was pulling their strings. For now, though--"

"I know." Cassandra says. "Do you think he will help us?"

Leliana laughs. "I'll teach you how to handle him. He'll help."

* * *

Varric just laughs and shakes his head. "You realise that if I wrote this in a novel, my editor would return the draft to me with a dagger through the middle of it? It would have _SUSPENSION OF DISBELIEF_ inscribed on the hilt."

* * *

Solas, on the other hand, takes the information very calmly, as if it isn't that surprising. "Ah, I _was_ wondering. There are traces of the curse left on him-- it was Elven in origin, I believe."

"You smell like Pack." Max says to him.

Solas smile curves into something sharp. "In ancient times, the Elves fought alongside the wolves. I have seen memories in the Fade-- great and glorious hunts for beasts that no longer have names in this world. Would you like me to tell you of them?"

Max looks like he wants to drop at Solas' feet and roll over on his back. "Yes!"

* * *

The Herald of Andraste does not have a tail. He does appear to have his tail between his legs, however.

"Leliana?"

"We had to have another discussion about what is and _isn't_ an appropriate method of scent-marking." Leliana says with a sigh. "Either his mother wasn't honest with me about how he'd been progressing or the stress of the anchor is making him more feral. Either could become a problem."

"Wrong smell." mutters the Blessed Herald of Andraste.

Cassandra can't help it-- she takes one look at those puppy eyes and has to give him a scratch behind the ears. Max gives her a dopey grin and leans into it.

"And you and Josephine spoiling him constantly is _not helping_." Leliana says.

Since Cassandra happens to know that Leliana keeps sneaking Max treats and asking him what his opinion on nugs is, Cassandra is going to ignore that.

* * *

"Aww," Josephine says. "They're all tired from playing."

"It is not _playing_." Solas says, with that sigh in his voice. "Max's instincts demand a firm hierarchical structure from within which--"

"Look at their little _faces_." Leliana squeals over the top of the lecture.

"Hush." Cassandra says. "You'll wake them."

Cullen murmurs something in his sleep; Max, draped haphazardly over his legs, just snores.

"At the very least." Solas adds with a scowl, "stop feeding him the same sort of treats you give to a pet nug. It's degrading. You should respect his nature, not try to _tame_ him."

Cassandra ignores that. Who made Solas an expert on ex-werewolves, anyway? Max happens to _like_ belly-rubs.

* * *

Max _is_ a bit of a puppy sometimes, but only with a select few, and not when they're out _on the hunt_. Discussions of large-scale strategy or politics bore him easily, but the closing of rifts ('kill wrong smell') and hunting down of their enemies? Those parts he's more than capable of.

Cassandra worries, but it seems those who don't know his nature see only the Herald; he's relatively taciturn with most strangers, so they see only his strength and think of the rest as 'dark, brooding, animal magnetism' (A direct quote from a very silly lay sister). He takes pride in protecting his ever-growing 'pack'. He can, when he concentrates, speak perfectly well, mind his manners to at least Ferelden standards, and remember not to bite anyone. 

It's just that he doesn't really _want_ to. And sometimes, like now, he will decide that no, he's not playing human right now.

At least there's nobody else around. "Solas? Can't you talk to him?"

"It's his first bear kill." Solas says, leaning on his staff and looking amused. Possibly proud. "Let him indulge himself."

"Ladies and gentlemen," Varric sighs. "The Herald of Andraste."

Max grins, face red with bear blood all around-- she will _not_ call it his muzzle, and holds out a handful of meat in the hand that doesn't hold a knife. "Want?"

"No, thank you." There's a river nearby. They can get him clean before he scares the scouts.

This is one they won't be putting in the history books when this is all done - the time the Herald of Andraste killed his first bear, ate too much bear meat, threw up--

\--and then decided he wanted to go hunting another bear.


	2. Chapter 2

Dorian has heard various stories about the Herald of Andraste. Some of them have started calling him the _The Wolf of Andraste_. Ridiculous name. The Ferelden complex about dogs probably has something to do with it. Out of Felix, he gets only "Well, he wasn't ten foot tall and he didn't breathe fire."

"That's-- not very specific."

"When I passed him the message he sniffed me."

"Bizarrely specific."

Felix shrugs. "He's-- very Ferelden."

What he actually is, Dorian finds out, is quite tall, broad shouldered, shaggy enough to be _The Mutt of Andraste_ at least and apparently not one for small talk when there are demons about, which is fine with him. Giant sword-wielding southerners who stand between Dorian and ugly death-- quite welcome.

And the way he closes the rift is just fascinating. Dorian has his priorities. Yes, he's probably disinherited and Alexius has apparently gone mad, but _utterly new form of magic_ here, he wants to know how that works. The way the Herald looks at him suggests he doesn't actually know either.

He doesn't get a chance to introduce himself. He opens his mouth and then next thing he knows he's on the ground with a very heavy Herald on top of him, nuzzling at his neck, then _licking_ him.

"Max!" he hears a woman call. The Orlesian mage? "Get _away_ from him. You know better than that." 'Max' draws away slowly, looking back at her like a puppy scolded for chewing shoes. Also, while no longer licking his neck, still fairly heavy, Dorian might mention. "He's from Tevinter. You might _catch_ something."

Charming. The Nevarran is more sympathetic. "I'm terribly sorry. He's normally so good--" She steps forward, and the Herald _growls_ at her.

"Calm down, nobody's stealing him from you." the dwarf says. "Just let the poor guy up before you squash him."

So there's... that.

None of them quite explain it to him. Max-- just 'Max', apparently-- is not very talkative. He speaks as if full sentences are an effort for him. Perhaps it's something to do with the Breach. Powerful magic can do strange things to a man's mind.

And yet, when they face down Alexius, he speaks as one in command-- words sparse and measured, even and unyielding. It is a mystery; but one he doesn't have time to consider, in the face of Alexius' spell and the panic that follows.

It's wet. The air is charged with magic, tasting of power so strange and wrong that he feels as if there's something in the back of his throat that he can't quite dislodge. And the Herald of Andraste is growling, pacing over the bodies of the Venatori they've just killed, muttering "Wrong smell, wrong smell, wrong smell..."

Okay. "Max?"

Max pins him to a wall this time, not the floor, which considering what's on the floor, is actually much preferable. "Smell same." he says, in apparent relief. Then he looks away, towards the doorway. "Kill wrong smell."

"I think we may have traveled in time--" Dorian starts, but Max doesn't seem to be interested in details. "Look-- if we find Alexius, I might be able to fix this."

That gets his attention. " _Hunt_." he says, nods, and heads out the door.

Dorian sighs and follows.

* * *

They find out what happened, or at least some of it, when they find the others. Max seems torn between happiness at reunion and his obvious distress with the state they find them in.

"There is nothing you can do for us. Protect Dorian." Cassandra tells him firmly. "Find Alexius. Fix this."

He does. The Herald is like a feral beast, only one that somebody has given a sword. Dorian almost feels sorry for the men they face. Maybe not so much as _almost_. Especially after they find Leliana. She listens to the explanation, at least some of it, and then cuts Dorian off. "Max. Hunt."

"Hunt." he agrees, and then off they go into further halls of unending horror, red lyrium and demons and a hole in the sky that _is_ the sky and--

Felix.

Alexius.

He doesn't have time to grieve. He barely has time to figure out the spell, trying not to think about what's on the other side of the door until it bursts in, until it's Leliana saying "Max. _Stay_." to stop him hurling himself into the fray, Dorian digging deep because he's only going to get one shot at this.

It works. He's going to pretend he knew it would.

* * *

Once they're not in 'hunt kill wrong smell' world anymore, Max seems to recover. At least, he can say things like "Fight beside us as allies.", and if he spends a lot of time moving between Varric and Cassandra and Leliana as if to make sure they're still there? Dorian won't comment.

Dorian announces he's staying with the obligatory flippant comment and tells himself it's to get at this 'Elder One', the bastard who twisted Alexius' mind like that, not anything to do with Max's puppy eyes.

"Particularly with Fiona and her mages here," Cullen Rutherford explains to him, on a very quick and dirty tour around Haven in which Cullen Rutherford himself is probably the main feature of interest, "we're short on rooms, so I'm afraid quarters are a bit cramped. Max seemed to think you'd be joining us in the den, so I went ahead and cleared you a space."

"The 'den'?"

Cullen shrugs, and pushes open a door. It's just a room in the Chantry, sparsely furnished with a painting of Andraste staring at him from one wall. There's a few beds, a pile of furs in the far corner, and the very bearded Grey Warden he met earlier, polishing his sword. That's not even a euphemism. "Yours is-- oh. Blackwall, what happened to the beds?"

Blackwall sighs. "Solas and the Herald were having one of _those_ conversations and then they moved everything around. Again." He looks Dorian over and points to the bed nearest the furs. "You're there, next to the Herald. Chest at the foot of the bed is empty if you have anything to go in it. Solas is on your other side."

There's only one bed beside the one Blackwall just indicated is his, and if he's understanding correctly, it belongs to the elven apostate he met earlier, the one who immediately queried his knowledge of time magic (he may have made one or two interesting points, actually, but that doesn't make him right). That leaves... "The _Herald of Andraste_ sleeps on a pile of furs?"

"He doesn't like beds." Blackwall says, slightly defensively. "It's just his way."

Dorian sleeps very well, actually-- although that probably has more to do with how tired he is than the comfort of the accommodations. He wakes to find himself weighed down by a heavy fur, and with Solas watching him sleep. "He gave you one of his bearskins." he says, idly. "He really _is_ rather taken with you."

He doesn't quite see how it all fits together yet, but Blackwall's snoring and the _smell_ of men living in close proximity and the damned cold aside, it's rather-- nice, in an odd way. He's never shared quarters before; never had to.

The fact that Max strips down to nothing to sleep is just a bonus. He tries not to be to obvious about looking, because he still can't figure the Herald of Andraste out. He doesn't respond to flirting like a normal person, but he _is_ very tactile. Although not just with Dorian. He spotted Leliana practically _petting_ the man the other day. 

His patterns of speech are strange, granted, but he understands a lot more than first appearances would suggest, and it certainly doesn't seem to be getting in the way as far as the average Inquisition soldier is concerned. If anything, he hears a lot of talk about how the Herald is a man of the common people, doesn't put on airs, all that rot.

Dorian, for his part, doesn't point out that 'the common people', to the best of his knowledge, don't sniff each other in greeting or have a thing for bear-hunting that borders on the suicidal.

There's definitely something he's missing, something to do with the magic of the breach or the cryptic discussions Max keeps having with Solas about _instincts_ and most definitely the fact that several of the others clearly know what's up and are trying to keep it secret. They shouldn't have told Cullen. The man is a terrible liar. It makes Dorian want to play cards with him. Strip-something, possibly.

In hindsight, he'll wonder why he didn't question it all more.

Right now, he just nods along to Blackwall's refrain of better-an-honest-man-then-some-prancing-noble, because he's heard it all already, and whatever Max's secret is, he doesn't think it's something Blackwall even knows.

Then there's a shout; warning bells; Haven becomes the worse-named place in Thedas and nothing matters except _staying alive_.


	3. Chapter 3

Dorian doesn't like to think about the trip to Skyhold; it's filled with too much fear, too much death, too much wondering if this is it, if this is how his glorious pariahhood ends, in some anonymous southern snowdrift.

If asked (not that many are asking), he'll only complain about all the snow.

It changes them all; it changes the Inquisition; it changes _Max_ , and that change is perhaps the most obvious. Gone are the shared quarters, the lapses in manners, the _nuzzling_. He spends most of his free time with Solas, when he's not sparring with Bull or Cassandra or Cullen. He is-- distant, focused on becoming stronger, on defeating their enemies.

A bearskin does make its way to his quarters, but other than that? Dorian sees him when Max needs his opinion on something or to ask him to travel together. He is appreciative of Dorian's help, and he doesn't touch him more than is necessary. He didn't realise how much he'd enjoyed those casual touches until they are gone.

He tries asking Solas about the matter, but the elf is an expert at dodging questions he doesn't want to answer. He tries flirting-- words still don't work, but when he's the one who initiates contact Max returns it, at least briefly. It's like he's holding back, somehow.

It changes again when the letter arrives from his father. "I won't lie." is all Max says, holding it out.

_I know my son_. Ugh. He looks up to see Max watching him, confused-puppy face on. "Are your family _also_ obnoxious hypocrites, or am I just lucky?"

Max pauses, for a moment. "My pa-- family are here."

"What, in Skyhold? First I've heard of it." The man doesn't even have a last name as far as Dorian knows; not that it matters, since most of Skyhold just calls him 'Inquisitor'.

Max sighs, steps closer. "No. _Here_." He gestures around them. "We live together, we hunt together. That is family, to me."

_Oh_. "Does that make me-- what, some sort of cousin? A little awkward given how much I've been flirting with you."

"Ma-- _That_ is a kind of family." Max shakes his head. "I'm supposed to use words. But the words aren't big enough. You are important." He growls under his breath. "Not right. Not big enough."

_Wait. Wait-- what?_ "Max." he says, heart in his throat. "I don't mind if you don't use words."

For a moment, he thinks there's about to be a kiss. Instead, Max closes the last little gap between them, and presses his face into Dorian's neck, pulling roughly at his collar to expose more skin and inhaling deeply. His hands slide around Dorian's waist, keeping him close, not that he was planning to go anywhere.

After a very long moment, he lifts his head and looks as if he's about to step away.

Dorian will have none of that. He can not use words, too. He winds his fingers into Max's wild hair and pulls him in for a proper kiss. It's rough and sloppy-- Fereldens, no finesse, good thing he doesn't _want_ finesse-- and when he breaks for a breath Max growls and takes another kiss, biting at Dorian's lower lip.

A light cough, and they both break apart to see Solas standing at the edge of the library, looking amused. Max shifts like he's trying to put himself between Dorian and Solas, like a shield (as if Dorian couldn't nearly certainly probably maybe take Solas in a duel). " _Well_." Solas says. "This is an interesting development."

"I want to show him in the Fade." Max says, staring Solas down. "He has to see who I am. The words aren't big enough."

Solas' gaze slides from Max to Dorian and back again. "I do not think that would be a good idea."

Max growls at him, stance shifting. "I _want_. I will find a way to show him even if you will not help."

"Even _less_ of a good idea. I suppose I will help, if you insist."

"Do _I_ get a say in any of this?" Dorian asks. "Or some sort of explanation?"

Solas' attention turns to him. "Max is right. Words are not sufficient for this, not truly. You will come to his rooms tonight, after dinner, and if you use what you are shown against him, Tevinter, I will _destroy_ you." He sidesteps neatly, as Max takes a swing at him for the last remark, and sighs, as if they're both very wearying. "Enough, Max. I would not really hurt him-- unless it was to protect you."

There's a brief moment-- Solas and Max often do this strange thing where they stare each other down, some wordless argument-- and then Solas just walks away.

Max sighs, tension sliding out of his posture. "I--" he says, and trails off. This expression at least Dorian understands - it's Max for _frustration_.

"You don't have to be good at words." he says, softly. "You'd never live up to my standards of charming loquaciousness anyway, so you might as well play the role of the strong, silent type. It suits you. But may I ask why the Fade? You're not secretly a desire demon, are you?"

Max snaps his teeth at him for that one, with one of his laughs that's nearly a bark, a short sharp sound of glee. "No. It's just hard to explain. I can be different, in the Fade. Solas has been teaching me. Or trying to."

Well, that goes some way to explaining all the late-night chats with Solas Max has been having. Not that Dorian was paying attention to how much-- oh, all right, he was and it was infuriating and Solas had absolutely refused to share any information about what he and Max had been up to. Now Max wants him to know his secret, trusts Dorian with it, and it clearly annoys Solas.

He concentrates on the latter fact, because the former one is rather-- the words aren't big enough? The words _you are important_ from a man who does not lie, does not engage in empty flattery even when Dorian leaves an opening in the conversation for empty flattery large enough to fly an Archdemon through-- that is plenty big enough a step for Dorian already. The thought of there being something _bigger_ half makes him want to run for the hills.


	4. Chapter 4

Dorian comes up with any number of theories about what it is Max wants to show him, each more unlikely than the rest, before he decides to try and stop thinking about it. This plan is only partly successful.

He finds himself, instead, in front of Max's rooms that evening, hand half-raised to knock when the door opens, Max standing there looking nervous. Shirtless, but that goes nearly without saying, given that it's Max. (Although, not without looking.) Solas is already there, standing comfortably among the sparse furnishings of Max's room. Dorian hasn't seen it before. He suspects most of the furniture was picked by someone else, and only the parts that don't fit say _Max_. The incongruous pile of roughly treated bearskin heaped on top of an obviously expensive bed is one clue, for example.

"I will guide you both into the Fade," Solas says, all business, "And do my best to keep any wandering demons or curious spirits from interrupting. If you wish to leave, all you have to do is call me-- I will hear."

Dorian lays his staff to one side, clambers onto the bed where Max entwines a hand with his, and tries not to panic. The concept of the sort of magic Solas is talking about so casually is not unfamiliar to him, but not so lightly practiced in Tevinter, if only because it involves giving someone else the sort of access to your mind that is potentially very, very dangerous.

If nothing else, he respects Solas' skill. His eyes close, and then _open_ , and he stands in a forest. The trees grow close and thick together overhead but it is strangely light and open at ground level. A rabbit bounds past him and disappears-- not down a hole, just literally winks out of existence, only for another, or the same one, to reappear further down the path. The wind blows past him but it is warm, not cold. Something nudges his hand and he looks down and sees the wolf.

It is _giant_ , grey with bright gold eyes and it is licking his hand. Something cold coils in his stomach. "Max?"

The moment he says it, he sees the man-- Max but with his eyes lit with gold-- and then the wolf again, and then both at the same time. _Yes_ , he hears, in words that are not words.

Something far off howls, and then he sees, rushing past them, a strange and monstrous parade, of creatures that are not man and not wolf, but something wrong and twisted. _Cursed. Confused. Neither one nor the other_. Then, the warm wind turns _hot_ , a roiling maelstrom which wraps around the creatures, bright and unbearable, and then there are just elves and men, and, at the back, a solitary boy with a flickering, transparent ghost of a wolf that follows at his heels. _I thought it was gone. But it was here all along._

A dozen forms of the same question flicker across Dorian's mind, only to be pushed away. Whatever he is-- skinchanger or some more obscure thing that he will have to have Solas explain to him later, Max is Max. The man who leads the Inquisition, can wrestle half the Templars in Skyhold into submission without breaking a sweat, is a berserk terror in battle and yet who also can, given about thirty seconds, switch any given child from bawling its eyes out to using him as some sort of climbing frame. The man who introduced himself to Dorian using his tongue, has been known to eat bear raw, at times has the sort of manners that make even Cullen, a Fereldan _farmboy_ , wince, but whose blunt honesty manages to be more charming than all the polished niceties in Orlais.

It would be a lie to say that he's not at least a little afraid of what all this might mean. But the wolf's fur is warm under his hand, and he knows he'll regret it if he walks away before he takes the time to fully understand. "You will tell me everything."

 _Yes_.

"And no kisses unless you're walking on two feet. I mean it."

The wolf shakes itself off, and then changes-- now it's just Max, although his eyes are still gold, and he's naked, because of course Max walks around the Fade naked. He steps close, and--

\--and the Fade dissolves around them, Dorian feeling himself yanked back into reality so quickly it takes the breath out of his lungs, like waking suddenly from a nightmare, only it wasn't a nightmare, it was turning into something very nice, really, and why did Solas have to--

Oh. Right.

"I believe," Solas says, lips tight and perhaps just a tiny bit of color in his cheeks, "that the rest is a discussion you neither need to have in the Fade, or with my supervision."

Without another word, he sweeps out of the room like an offended dowager. Dorian catches Max's eyes-- brown, now-- and a tiny, childish giggle escapes him. This entire situation is _ridiculous_ \-- the part where Max is apparently a wolf, at least in the Fade, and the part where Dorian has never been kissed in the Fade by anything not trying to possess him before, and basically all the parts of this that involve Solas, and especially the part where he might be falling in love.

Well, he's never liked the thought of being ordinary, so on that account, well done him?

It takes him a moment longer to realise that Max hasn't let go of his hand yet. He looks down at where their fingers are interlaced. "How long do you think we were in the Fade? It can be quite deceptive. Looks like it's dark outside. Must be late. I suppose I ought to head back." But he doesn't pull away.

Max's response is to reach over and grab his other hand. "It's cold out. Stay where it is warm."

"It _is_ very cold." Dorian agrees. "And your bed looks much warmer than mine." This is all moving very fast, but perhaps it's better that way. This, he knows. Sex is remarkably uncomplicated, when you get down to it. Pleasure, taken and given, and don't think about the meaning of it all until the morning.

That's what he thinks. But when he strips down and lets Max cocoon them both in bearskin, it turns out surprisingly chaste. Max kisses him softly, tangling their legs together. "Fade makes me tired."

Max can go from awake to asleep in about five seconds. Dorian has seen this before. He's never seen it when they're both naked and the man's face is a breath away from his own. "Max?" There's no answer. Just a huff of breath and then nothing more. Why would he go to all the effort of getting Dorian naked and in his bed if he's just going to sleep? Infuriating man.

He is, at least, warm. Dorian sighs and closes his eyes. Maybe this will all make more sense in the morning.


	5. Chapter 5

He wakes up trapped underneath Max, who has shifted while they sleep to lay half on top of him, and is now lazily mouthing at his shoulder. "Good morning." He's not that inclined to move. It's probably still too early and too cold to get up. "Can I ask why you're doing that?"

"Taste good." he mumbles against Dorian's skin. "Smell good."

"Okay." Dorian pauses. "Can I now ask why you're doing that instead of kissing me?"

Max lifts his head, and shifts up a little. "You were asleep."

"I'm not asleep _now_ , am I?" Unless this is a lovely dream, but Dorian somehow doubts that his mind would be able to come up with these... peculiarities. Max doesn't require any further hints, pressing Dorian further into the mattress with hands on his shoulders and a slow, sweet kiss.

"Inquisito-- Oh, Maker's _breath_ , I'm sorry. Terribly sorry."

Max lifts his lips away from Dorian's and growls at Cullen. Dorian's not sure who is more embarassed, Cullen or _him_. It's not the first time he's been walked in on in flagrante delicto, but normally he's actually been up to some _delicto_ , not mere naked cuddling. (In one case, when it had been the wife that had walked in, it had also ended in literal _flagrante_ ). Not that it will matter, he's sure, when the gossip gets around. "Cullen, no offence, but please _go away_." he says.

Cullen doesn't, although he does hold his paperwork up over his face like a shield. "I'm afraid I really do need to speak to the Inquisitor as a matter of urgency."

Max groans, drops his head back to Dorian's shoulder and bites lightly, then moves to get up. "Work." he says, with distaste. "I will come find you after. Or you could stay here." He looks happy at the thought.

"That _would_ make me easier to find," Dorian agrees, "but I'll probably be in the library." Possibly looking up better door locking spells. Or perhaps he should just try being not so easily distracted that they forget to actually lock the door in the first place.

"Just please put some clothes on." Cullen says, from behind his paperwork.

Dorian steals one last kiss from Max before he does.

* * *

He ends up going to find Solas, instead.

Solas just sighs at him, in the manner of a man dealing with a very tiresome child. He and _Magister_ Pavus should have a disappointed-sigh competition. "You're going to be impossible about this, aren't you."

"That depends on how many questions you're planning to dodge." Dorian says. "I'm not happy that I wasn't told before, but I will be rightfully _pissed_ if you try to hold out on me now."

Solas sighs again, and mutters something in Elvish that's probably not very complimentary. "Leliana would tell you a story of an elven mage seeking revenge, who cast a spell to make men who acted like beasts into a form more fitting their nature. But the magic he used was far older than he knew, and that was not its original purpose. There were warriors in ancient times, skinchangers who took more than mere forms, who were as much wolves who could take elven form as elves who could take the form of wolves. Neither shape dominating over the other, but acting in harmony. I thought--" He pauses. "The art was associated with Fen'harel, and thus is now lost to the Dalish. Deliberately, I expect. How it was that a human babe ended up with--" Another pause. "I suppose it doesn't matter _how_."

"If he's a skinchanger, why did we have to go into the Fade?" Dorian asks. He doesn't bother asking how Solas knows this stuff. The answer will be one of those lectures about what you can learn from spirits if you talk to them instead of enslaving them. "Why not just show me?"

"Max cannot control his gift. He has not yet learnt to bring the two sides of himself into harmony." Solas says. "When he was young, the wolf was dominant. Then, when the 'curse' was released, he was taught that he was human, and his wolf nature a thing to be surpressed. The breach, or the influence of the Anchor, or perhaps both, brought the wolf into dominance again."

His mind's running down a hundred different tracks at once. "What, like a sort of protective instinct?" That would explain Redcliffe, if the wolf side was stronger when under stress or in danger. It's like no sort of magic he's ever heard of, though-- wait, does this mean Max is actually a mage? Aren't skinchangers all hedge-mages? Or more like some sort of possession, if the 'wolf' is some kind of spirit-- called into the body of a child, residing there so long that neither spirit nor host knows they are not a single entity-- a fascinating thought, which would go against _everything_ he's ever been taught about possession, granted, but that doesn't mean--

"Please stop trying to figure things out by yourself. I can see you doing it and your guesses are undoubtably _wrong_." Solas says. "It is not magic that can be explained if you think of magic in the way Tevinter thinks of magic. Neither is Max merely an interesting subject for you to _study_."

_Arse_ says a little voice at the back of Dorian's head. It sounds suspiciously like Sera. "I'm trying to understand him, Solas, not write a monograph."

Solas gives him a withering look. "Just as well. So far your methods of data collection have been _less_ than scientific." While Dorian is still internally spluttering at that one (dammit, Cullen, who have you _told_?), he hands over a book, a slender tome entitled _The Nature of the Wolf_. Just as he thinks maybe Solas is actually trying to be nice this time, the elf adds, "You should probably look at chapter four first. It deals with body language between a mating pair, and how sexual receptivity is indicated."

Dorian opens his mouth, closes it again, and settles for just glaring at Solas, who now looks smugly amused. "I-- _ugh_."

"If you don't have any further questions," Solas adds, "I do have work of my own to attend to."

This is the point at which Dorian decides to just cut his losses and retreat back to his own corner of the library.

He does take the book with him, though.

* * *

Within about ten minutes he can't resist the temptation to take a look at Solas' book, although he does start from the first chapter, thank you very much.

It's not actually nearly as helpful as he was hoping. Half of this doesn't sound anything like Max-- or is this Solas making a point in some roundabout way? A few more pieces of the puzzle slot into place, but there's nothing here which explains _bears_ , or for example, _why me_?

Chapter four is long on the author's opinions of pair-bonding being a sign of the Maker's love for his creatures, and, at least at first, short on details. Until he finds himself nodding along to a list of courtship behaviours-- all the little touches, back in Haven, the way Max likes to walk alongside him when they're out in the field, bumping shoulders before running ahead when he seens an enemy.

He imagines passing a note back to his father via this retainer of his; terribly sorry, Father, but a werewolf is trying to court me. Too busy trying to work out what the wolf for 'yes, please' is to come home right now. If you'd like a dowry for me, please request payment in bearskins.

Oh, the thought of his father's _face_. That's not the reason he's sitting here blushing at a book about wolves, but it would be something of a bonus.

Although it seems a little cruel to lump Max in with men he slept with to annoy his father. Max is different. He's-- earnest, is the word, perhaps, honest and straightforward to the point where he can say these ridiculous things and Dorian finds himself believing them, rather than looking for what angle the lie's coming from.

With a sigh, he puts the book aside. He should probably do some proper work. Things to decipher, things to research, letters from his father to attempt to ignore completely, or at least for as long as he can.

He does so until his stomach reminds him he hasn't had anything more than a cursory mid-morning snack. Conveniently, Max chooses that moment to arrive. Dorian sees the embrace coming before he moves, and chooses to step into it, despite the likelihood of somebody seeing them. Maybe it is love, this impulse to wrap an arm around Max's waist and hold him close while he nuzzles into Dorian's neck in greeting, strong enough that it can win out over the instincts that would have him hiding in dark corners or behind closed doors.

"Lunch?" Max asks, just the one word murmured mostly into Dorian's neck.

Sometimes you just have to interpolate some additional words into Max' sentences from context. "If you would stop _nibbling_ on me then yes, I would love to have lunch with you." Dorian replies. "As long as the meat is cooked, and is not _bear_."

Max's answer is to grab his hand and drag him downstairs and across to one of the communal rooms, where a table has been laid out with several familiar faces gathered about it. Josephine and Leliana both look at them, particularly at the part where Max hasn't let go of Dorian's hand yet, and turn to smile at each other in unison. Cullen looks vaguely embarrassed, while Blackwall curses under his breath and slaps a coin into Varric's outstretched hand.

It's no banquet, but there's cold meat and that sweet Ferelden pickle that Cullen wrongly thinks he's allowed to monopolise, and there's feeling the press of Max's shoulder against his own all through lunch. It doesn't go without comment ( _jousting_ , Sera? Really?), but nobody accuses him of bringing shame down upon the Inquisition, which puts it miles ahead of any family luncheon he's had in recent memory.


End file.
